


My Voice In Your Head

by unfolded73



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amputation, Angst, F/M, Season/Series 07, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfolded73/pseuds/unfolded73
Summary: Killian hears Milah speaking to him sometimes.





	My Voice In Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny S7 spoiler for Killian's cursed persona. Content warning: descriptions of the consequences of Killian losing his hand and of alcoholism. 
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, ignore the compression of events seen in 2x04 - namely, the fact that Milah was laid to rest on the same day they made for Neverland. Because I don’t like that, and I’m ignoring it. (Not a thing I do lightly. You know me, I like to work under the sometimes stupid constraints of canon. But not this time, bitches.)

A full-body shiver tore through him, and Killian clenched his jaw so hard that it ached as he tried to stop his teeth from chattering. His wrist felt like it was on fire, the pain seeming to radiate into a hand and fingers that were no longer there. He kept bringing the bandaged stump up to his face, convinced that somehow his hand had reappeared. His right hand gripped tightly to the neck of his flask, and he brought it to his mouth, tipping the last of the rum past his cracked lips.

“Mister Smee!” he shouted. The door to the captain’s quarters was open so that his voice would carry, and his new crewman quickly shuffled into the room. 

“Yes, sir?”

“I need more rum.” He threw the flask, but it missed its mark and bounced harmlessly off the wall. Smee bent to pick it up.

“The helmsman said we should reach the next port tomorrow and gods willing, the Dark One hasn’t followed. We’ll fetch a doctor for you as soon as we can.” The man seemed to be averting his eyes from the stained bandage at the end of Killian’s arm.

“I don’t want a doctor.”

“Sir—”

“Just get me more rum,” he gritted out between his teeth. “It dulls the pain.”

“If you won’t see a doctor, then at least let Cook see you.”

“That butcher wants to chop more of my arm off. Tell him to stop sharpening his axe.”

“But sir, if it stops the infection—”

“I don’t bloody care, now get me the _bloody rum_!” he roared, levering himself a few inches up from his sweat-soaked sheets. Smee ran, and Killian dropped back down to his bed, exhausted by the small exertion.

“You wanted me to live, eh, Crocodile?” he croaked to the empty room. “Well, the joke’s on you; I won’t last the week.” He’d seen under the bandage, and he knew what those red lines on his skin likely meant. The infection would spread, and he would die. “A small mercy,” he whispered. There was something poetic about it, the way the creeping lines of infection were a slow version of the black tendrils of dreamshade that killed his brother Liam. 

_I’ve known you to be a lot of things, Killian Jones, but I’ve never known you to be such a coward._

The voice was hers, Milah’s, and it sounded incredibly real, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t know it was a product of his fevered brain.

“You’re dead,” he said out loud.

 _And you don’t have to join me_ , she responded.

“I don’t have the strength to live without you, my love.” His narrow bunk seemed vast, empty without her to share it. The idea of a long life stretching out in front of him, filled with nothing but heartache, was utterly exhausting to contemplate. Mornings spent struggling to button his shirts or buckle his belt one-handed, nights returning alone to this cold bed, where he once held his lover in his arms. Where she’d made him happier than anyone ever had. He shivered violently, his teeth clacking together.

 _You should sleep. This fever will pass and you will heal_. He imagined he could feel her cool hand on his forehead, brushing his sweat-damp hair back off of his face.

“I want you back,” he said, his voice breaking. “I want to go back and do it again. This time I won’t go near him, and we’ll sail far, far away from this part of the realm and never return. Please, let me go back and do it again.” His voice creaked as if he was crying, but no tears flowed. He was too parched.

 _That’s not within my power, love_. He still felt her fingers gently stroking his hair. _How about I sing you a song until you fall asleep?_

The voice began to croon softly, a love song that Milah used to adore and would request of any bard they happened upon on their travels. He drifted, his shivering abating, and listened to the song.

_How might a princess oh so fair,_  
_with lovely lips and flaxen hair,_  
_love a brigand such as I?_  
_I love her too; I cannot lie…_

~*~

Milah’s voice became a constant presence in his mind.

It gave him someone to talk to as he mended, as the healing poultice that a doctor put on his stump while he was unconscious did its work. A surgeon closed over the wound, the infection abated, and Killian slowly regained his strength. 

He knew she wasn’t really there talking to him, that it was just his own thoughts filtered through a mental conjuring of her voice. But imagined or not, it made him feel a tiny bit less alone. Talking to the Milah in his mind became a habit, easily transferred from the habit of talking to her when she was alive.

“This island is a trap,” he said as he stomped into his quarters. “That infernal creature is keeping the dreamshade from me.”

 _You knew he was a trickster and yet you insisted on coming here to Neverland_ , not-Milah said impassively.

“It’s the only way to kill the Dark One, you know that.”

He heard a sort-of sigh in his head, and he could see the way her shoulders would rise and fall so clearly that it startled him. _You don’t have to do this. Vengeance accomplishes nothing._

He pulled his flask from his coat pocket to take a long pull from it. “I don’t know what else to do, Milah. If I can’t make him pay for what he did to you, then what kind of man am I?”

His mind had no response to that. 

Killian shrugged his long, leather coat off and hung it on a peg. He disconnected his hook — he was starting to get used to it, to what he could do with it and what he couldn’t; he’d almost mastered using it to pull on the rigging, and was starting to feel a tiny bit less of an invalid on his own ship — and pulled his shirt off, unbuckling the new, stiff leather brace that he’d been outfitted with before they left Misthaven. He rubbed his stump, grimacing at the deep, tingling ache of damaged nerves.

_It still pains you?_

“Aye, but not terribly.” The memory of his hand being separated from his body flashed through his mind for the millionth time, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Traumatic as it was, he’d endure it every day if he could have Milah back.

_I’m so sorry, Killian. It was my fault. If you’d never met me—_

“Then I’d never have known love. So don’t say that. It’s not your fault.”

_You can love again someday. Please don’t think that because you lost me, you’ll be alone forever._

He retrieved his flask and drank again, his silence a rebuke to the very idea that he could ever love anyone again. Love didn’t matter to him anymore. He’d figure out a way to get what he needed from this island of horrors eventually. After all, time didn’t matter in Neverland. 

“I miss you,” he said after a long while.

_I know, darling._

~*~

Killian’s head dropped onto his folded arms on the rough-hewn table in the empty galley. The room spun.

_Look at you. You’re disgusting._

He raised his head, squinting his eyes to try to bring the room into focus. “What?”

_You’ve been drunk almost continuously for weeks, Killian. You’re a disgrace._

“Milah would never say that,” he croaked. She wouldn’t, not with the way she herself had sometimes struggled with drink.

_Who are you to presume what I would say? I died because of you._

Killian didn’t respond, putting his head down again and letting the room resume its nauseating revolutions.

Her voice was rarely a comfort anymore. It had become a way for his subconscious to point out all of his failings, to berate him for what a useless waste of space he was. His self-loathing had been twisted in his mind to become her loathing, even if she would never have judged him so harshly. 

“Please, do go on,” he said to the table, his head too heavy to lift.

_You were a worthless layabout when under your brother’s care, and as soon as he died, you lost what tiny scrap of honor he’d managed to instill in you. Now you’re not even a good pirate, trapped in this… this no-place on a fruitless quest for revenge. Allying yourself with a maniacal boy._

“I’m doing this for _you_!” he shouted into the empty room, the air fetid and stifling. He should go above deck, he thought, to get some relief from the heat.

_I’m dead, Killian, there’s no doing anything for me anymore. There’s only you._

“Don’t I know it.” He let his head loll back on his neck. He thought he might vomit. “I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore.”

There was no response.

~*~

He stopped hearing Milah’s voice after that.

~*~

“Oh, can you pick up mac and cheese?” Emma asked, peering into the cupboard.

Killian’s pen hovered over his list. “Not that orange boxed stuff, love.”

“Yes, that ‘orange boxed stuff.’ I won’t make you eat it, it’s for me when you aren’t here to make dinner. Like when you’re at Dad’s poker game.”

He sighed and wrote ‘macaroni and cheese’ on the grocery list. “Anything else?”

“I’ve kind of been craving watermelon for some reason,” his wife said as she picked up her coffee mug and took a sip. Emma was dressed in one of her yoga outfits, sweat from her early morning workout glistening in the hollow of her throat. “Hey, I can come with you if you want.”

“You said you wanted to get started cleaning out the basement,” Killian said as he wrote ‘watermelon’ down. “And I think you did the shopping last week.”

Emma shrugged. “I know, but I thought you might want some company.”

Grinning at her, he stood up and tucked the list in the pocket of his leather jacket. “Your unwillingness to be parted from me is appreciated, darling, but I think I can manage on my own.”

“Suit yourself.” She walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. His hand drifted without thought to her hip, and he gave her an affectionate squeeze. 

“I’ll see you later.”

He walked down the sidewalk to the street and got behind the wheel of his car, putting it in gear and pulling away from the curb.

_You’re truly a man of this realm now, Killian. Driving one of these automobiles._

Milah’s voice was so clear that he whipped his head toward the passenger seat, half-expecting to see her sitting there.

_I’m still in your head, love. Same as ever._

He didn’t respond, trying to focus on driving. He was still a novice at this, with about as much driving experience as Henry, and the last thing he wanted was to have to telephone his wife to admit that he’d collided with a street lamp because he was distracted by his dead lover’s voice. He looked carefully in both directions and pulled out onto Main Street. Zelena was pushing Robyn in a stroller down the sidewalk, and she raised her hand in a wave. Killian waved back.

_How is my grandson?_

“If you’re a product of my imagination, then you should know,” he responded out loud.

_Humor me._

“He’s brilliant. Nearly a man grown.”

He could see Milah smiling in his mind’s eye. _I’m so happy you’re there to be a father to him, Killian. If Bae couldn’t be there, it’s wonderful that it’s you._

He felt tears press behind his eyes, and he shook his head to clear it. It was amazing that after so long, he could still imagine Milah’s voice with such perfect accuracy. Amazing and a kind of torture.

_I told you you’d fall in love again. Didn’t I tell you?_

“Aye, and it only took two and a half centuries,” he said with a watery laugh.

_Better late than never._

Killian pulled into a parking space in front of Storybrooke’s supermarket and killed the engine. “Why now?” he whispered. “Why are you suddenly talking to me now, after all this time?”

She didn’t respond. After a moment of silence, Killian got out of the car and carried on with his day.

~*~

He turned the knob on the washing machine and pulled it up, hearing the water starting to flow inside. Opening up the dryer, he sighed at the sight of an abandoned, wrinkled pile of Emma’s clothes — left there for days, most likely. Closing the dryer door again, he set it to run for a few minutes to get the wrinkles out.

_Your wife is a bit of a slob._

“So were you,” he muttered softly, the sound of his voice subsumed by the noise of the appliances in the echoey basement.

_Only in comparison to your uptight naval habits. Even as a drunk, you were annoyingly tidy._

He chuckled. “I had plenty of other faults.” Noticing a laundry basket full of clean, unfolded towels, he started to fold them and stack them on top of the dryer.

_Your life now certainly is different than it was in my day._

“Aye, I’m not pillaging nearly as many royal ships. Hardly any,” he said with a smirk.

_Do you miss it?_

“I’m no longer a villain. That’s not me anymore.”

_I see that. Deputy Jones, husband and father and folder of towels._

His shoulders raised defensively. “Aye. What of it?”

He could almost see Milah’s skeptical eyebrow rise in his mind’s eye. _It’s just different._

Killian continued to fold the towels, frowning. When the dryer beeped, he gradually added his wife’s jeans and cotton tops and socks and underwear to the neat stack.

“Going on a crime spree wouldn’t make me happier, you know. Abandoning my responsibilities wouldn’t make me happier.”

_I never said it would._

“So why do you keep pestering me, Milah? Why are you in my head again all of a sudden?”

_Something is coming. A time when you’re going to need my voice in your head._

Killian’s frown deepened. “What does that mean?”

~*~

“I need to tell you something,” he said softly as they sat together in the backyard, enjoying what would probably be one of the last warm days of the season. Emma swirled the wine in her glass as she sat in a lawn chair beside him, her bare legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

“What’s that, babe?” She was relaxed and happy, and Killian froze at the idea of ruining that. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he phrase this in a way that wouldn’t hurt her? Emma picked up on his hesitance, and worry stole over her face. “Killian, what?”

He cleared his throat. “After Milah died, I used to imagine I heard her voice in my mind sometimes. For a long time, actually. It was one of the ways I processed her death, I suppose.”

“That makes sense.” She was watching him carefully.

“It stopped happening after a time. I still thought of her, of course, but it was no longer like she was with me. Until recently.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “I’ve been hearing her voice again.”

“Like, _hearing_ it? Like she’s really speaking out loud?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s only in my mind.” He scratched behind his ear, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

“You’re confessing to me like you’ve been having an affair,” she said. 

He huffed with frustration. “Well, it’s not exactly something you want to tell your wife, that you’ve been thinking so much about…”

“Your _first_ wife?”

Killian grimaced. “We weren’t married.”

Emma shrugged. “You might as well have been.” She tilted her head back on her lawn chair, staring up at the darkening sky. “I know what you mean though, about it being like your inner voice but coming through Milah. I used to imagine my parents that way. I mean, I didn’t know what my parents sounded like, obviously. But sometimes I would imagine my inner thoughts were being spoken to me by my Mom. Or Dad. It was comforting.”

“Aye, and that is an explanation for why her voice was in my head for a long time after she died. It doesn’t explain why it’s suddenly happening again.”

“Maybe she’s haunting you.”

“Swan, I’m serious.”

She set her wine glass down on the ground and pulled one of her legs up as she turned to face him. “So am I. Stranger things have happened in this town.”

“Yes, but you and I both know she’s not just dead. Her soul was…” He swallowed, his throat thick. “She was lost in the River of Souls.”

Emma shrugged again. “Who knows what King Arthur’s been up to down there in the Underworld. He was prophesied to heal a broken kingdom. Maybe he’s... strained her out of there somehow.” She shook her hands up and down as if she was holding something, and he couldn’t help but smile in spite of his heavy mood.

“What on earth are you doing, love?”

She looked down at her hands and laughed. “I guess I’m imagining that she’s spaghetti in a colander? I don’t know.” Her face shifted and she reached over and took his hand. “Look, whatever the reason that Milah’s on your mind lately, it’s okay. Thank you for telling me, but please don’t feel guilty about it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Unless you’re planning to run off and leave me for ghost-Milah, in which case, feel guilty and also, that’s fucked up.”

He laughed with surprise. “You are an amazing woman, Swan.”

She snorted and leaned over to pick up her wine glass again. “I think you’re giving me a little too much credit just for not being jealous of your first love who’s been dead for hundreds of years.” Taking a sip of wine, she made a pensive face. “Why do you think it’s happening now?”

“It’s not because I’m dissatisfied with this life. I love our life.”

“Whoa, okay, I didn’t suggest that you didn’t, although I can’t help but think this is one of those protesting too much situations.”

“It’s just… I mean, it can get monotonous, all of the tasks of modern life in this realm.” Emma started to look genuinely worried, and Killian groaned. “I’m not saying this clearly. Please understand that I wouldn’t trade my life with you for anything. You make me deliriously happy. You know that, right?”

Emma nodded slowly, her eyebrow raised. “Yeah.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not occasionally… bored? Not by you, darling, just by… I don’t know. Work. Or laundry.”

Laughing, Emma leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “We’re all bored by that stuff, sweetheart. Not everything in life is exciting adventure. The boring things are part of life.” She tilted her head to the side, thinking. “Maybe we’re overdue for a vacation, though. What do you say, pirate? Should we pack up and set out on your ship for a couple of weeks? Recapture some of the swashbuckle that we’ve been missing lately?”

Killian grinned. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said with a slightly smug grin of her own.

~*~

Officer Rogers closed his apartment door and leaned against it. Another shift over, he dragged himself into his bedroom, pulling off his police uniform and changing into sweats. With a sigh, he regarded his overflowing laundry basket. Grabbing a beer from the fridge and the book he’d been reading from the nightstand, he picked up his laundry basket and made his way down to the basement, where the apartment’s dank little laundry room was located. 

Finding it empty, Rogers’ shoulders dropped with relief, and he filled two washers with his clothes. He sat down in the room’s lone plastic chair, cracked open his beer, and turned to his book.

_Doing laundry again, I see._

He looked up, confused by the clarity of the woman’s voice he’d heard. No, not heard. Imagined. Shaking his head, he looked back down at the page he’d started to read.

_Don’t ignore me, love. You need me._

“Is someone there?” he asked out loud. In his mind, a brief image of brown, wavy hair and sparkling jewels flashed. The scent of tallow candles and perfume filled his nose.

_This isn’t your life. You don’t belong here._

“Who are you?”

 _It’s not important who I am. You need to find your stepson. You need to get back to your wife._

He laughed, hoping no one was going to walk in and find him talking to himself. “I don’t have a wife. I certainly don’t have a stepson.”

He sensed sadness from the mysterious voice in his head. _Does that sound right to you? Truly?_

“I don’t…” He stopped. Did it? There was something about his life that had always seemed wrong, but he’d never understood why. The idea of a wife, it resonated somehow. Frowning, he shook himself. “I need to get out more. I’m lonely.”

_There’s a girl, and she knows the truth. When you meet her, listen to what she has to say. Please, Killian._

“That’s not my name,” he whispered, his heart starting to race.

_Promise me you’ll listen to the girl._

“What girl?”

_Your granddaughter._

He laughed, and it sounded a wee bit insane to his ears. “Oh, now I have a _granddaughter_?”

_Don’t laugh, she’s my great-granddaughter._

“Who _are_ you?”

The sensation of a hand caressing his cheek felt so real for a moment that he brought his own hand up to his face, his book tumbling from his lap to land on the floor.

 _Just promise me_ , the mysterious woman’s voice said in his mind.

Officer Rogers closed his eyes. “I promise.”


End file.
